Normal Circumstances
by InsanityInReverse
Summary: With missing bags, a suspiciously missing wallet and strangely cancelled hotel reservations, England is left wandering the streets of Venice alone. Well, that is until Italy comes to the rescue! The next two weeks are going to be some of the strangest ones in England's life... [UKIta, Romanada]
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Normal Circumstances  
**Genre: **Romance  
**Rating: **T, for now.  
**Summary: **With missing bags, a suspiciously missing wallet and strangely cancelled hotel reservations, England is left wandering the streets of Venice alone. Well, that is until Italy comes to the rescue! The next two weeks are going to be some of the strangest ones in England's life... [UKIta, Romanada]  
**Pairings and Characters: **England/Italy, Romano/Canada, France, America, appearances by Prussia, Germany, Grandpa Rome (\^.^/ Yay~) and Hungary/Romania.

**A/N **;; Hi there! Welcome to my first Hetalia story! I've been planning and trying to write for Hetalia for the longest time now (three months, I think) and this is the only story I've come up that I don't think I screwed up the characters _too badly_.

But, eh, if any are the characters are terribly OOC, please tell me and I'll try my hardest to fix them.

* * *

**Normal Circumstances**

**[Chapter One – In Which Prussia Starts a Food Fight]**

* * *

The meeting was in shambles. Tatters. An absolute mess.

It had been ten minutes, England reminded himself irritably, _ten bloody minutes_ since America, who was covering for Germany's absence, had called the meeting to order and in that short period of time, everything had somehow managed to go to hell in a handbasket, get rejected and pop out ten times worse than it had originally started.

To put it simply, Prussia had started a food fight.

This in itself wasn't unusual. Prussia had a certain knack for creating trouble, an inbred ability to know what made the nations around him _tick_ – something that (thank the heavens above) Germany hadn't inherited. One Prussia was bad enough to deal with, thank you very much...

Sometime during the Italies' opening speech, Prussia had somehow slid out of his chair without anyone noticing, made his way over to the lunch table, picked up a small cake and threw it halfway across the conference room. It had hit Austria, as England assumed it was supposed to, knocking the glasses off his face and the nation himself off his chair.

Hungary and Switzerland, who had been sitting on either side of Austria and who had both been hit by flecks of whipped cream, stood up, furious. Hungary had brandished her frying pan and Switzerland had groped around for his gun, momentarily forgetting that Germany had banned guns from conferences a few meetings beforehand – Germany would have also attempted to ban frying pans, but that would have run the risk of angering Hungary, and even Germany was frightened of an angry Hungary.

It had only taken a moment for Switzerland to recover from his momentary memory relapse. He immediately took off after Hungary, leaving behind a giggling Lichtenstein and a still stunned Austria. Prussia had been smirking as he watched two of the most violent nations in the world go barreling around the conference table to reach him, throwing another few more cakes towards his approaching murders, momentarily stunning them. Taking the few precious moments he had been given, Prussia grabbed whatever he could and threw it in random directions.

Korea, America, Denmark, Vietnam and Iceland were the nations hit by Prussia's random flying food projectiles. America, Korea and Denmark practically launched themselves over the meeting table to reach the table of food, while Vietnam was held down by Taiwan and Iceland begrudgingly sat still as Norway wiped the food off his face.

And with Prussia, Denmark, America and Korea working together, nobody in the room was safe. China had a handful of rice flung at him, courtesy of Korea, France had a burger hit him in his oh so perfect face and Denmark flung an uncooked fish at Sweden, although his aim was slightly off and it instead ended up hitting Finland instead. Romano was hit in the chest by a bowl of mashed potatoes. Belarus screeched as she and Russia were hit by stuffed peppers.

And all hell broke loose.

Several nations – Japan, who was dragging along a half-asleep Greece, Lichtenstein, Latvia, Ukraine, Taiwan and an unwilling Vietnam – fled the room, grabbing their meeting folders on the way out. They had the good sense to know that this couldn't end well, that unless they ran away, they weren't likely to leave the room unscathed.

England wished he had followed them.

In normal circumstances, England would have been one of the first nations out of his seat to reach the food table. He would have loved to shove a scone in France's face, to pour custard and tea over his head, or even Spain, for that matter. He wasn't sure whether he would have been with America or against him, but it would have been satisfying either way.

But these weren't exactly normal circumstances. His bag had been lost somewhere between his own country and Venice (he swore that this was the _last _time he was flying on public airlines), leaving him with only the clothes he was presently wearing for the entire two week conference. He refused to walk among the streets of Venice in food-covered clothes, nor did he want to streak (he wasn't drunk enough for that yet). But he was too proud to ask anyone to borrow anything, if only temporarily, though he knew there were a few nations that would help him without question – America's brother, for one, and America and France, though he would never live their teasing down.

Luckily, he still had his passport and wallet. Once lunch break came around, he could steal away from the conference room, duck into the nearest clothes shop, purchase his new clothes, and get back to the meeting in record time. It could be his own little secret. No one would ever have to know...

But first things first, he needed to get out of immediate sight–

England swiftly ducked his head as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pancake being flung in his direction, thrown by none other than a smirking Canuck. Canada's smirk only widened as Prussia and America cheered and whistled in the background, yelling, "Damn Mattie! You _scary_!"

England levelled his best glare at Canada, green eyes flashing with irritation – really, the lad could be just as annoying and troublesome as America if he put his mind to it. However, his stare did nothing to deter Canada, as the blond was aiming a bottle of maple syrup in his direction, that smug smirk still plastered on his face.

Luckily, just as Canada was about to squeeze the bottle, he was hit in the back of the head by Holland. Holland was brushing leftover rijstebrij (1) off his hands, aiming a cool smile in Canada's direction. From beside him, America and Prussia 'oooh'ed simultaneously, exchanging a quick look with each other behind Canada's back.

England watched as Canada's face scrunched up, spinning on his heel and adjusting his aim on the bottle, squeezing as hard as he could. Canada shared a high five with both Prussia and America as the stream of maple syrup hit Holland square in the face, leaving the nation staring at them blankly, syrup dripping off his face and onto his suit.

Shaking his head, England turned his eyes away. He needed to hide while those four were distracted. And so, taking one last brief look around the conference room, making sure that all the nations were busy with something or other, before he crouched down, crawling under the velvet table cloth.

Under the table was completely empty, which suited England just fine. The fewer nations, the better – there was a lesser chance that someone would poke their head under the table and see him, the former British empire, hiding from a measly food fight. Even the Italy brothers were better than this, England thought miserably, resting his head on his knees.

However, it wasn't as though he had much of a choice but to hide. The doors of the conference room had, at some point, been blocked – and he suspected that handiwork could be traced back to either America or Denmark. He couldn't afford to have his suit dirtied with food – not today. Later, he would take his revenge on Prussia for starting the whole damn mess, for forcing him to seek shelter under a table, for making him think he was _lower than the Italy brothers._

England sighed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checked the time, and slid it back in. He had another two hours before the meeting broke for lunch and he could nothing but sit under the conference table to pass that time. Again, he wished that he had joined the group of nations that had left earlier. He was sure they were all patting themselves on the back for their choice.

Above the table, he could hear the insults fly. At this point, England was willing to bet that there was more insults in the air than there was food. He could hear Romano screeching at Spain, Hungary yelling at Prussia, Denmark begging for mercy from Norway and Iceland, and America trying to antagonize Russia into another fight.

He found himself wishing that perhaps one day, they could have a normal meeting without it dissolving into a worldwide fight. Perhaps one day, they could have a meeting where there was no Prussia, Italy was actually useful, there was no random groping from France, no idiot ideas from America, no violence from Romano and no threats of being clobbered with a frying pan from Hungary. Perhaps then, they would be able to get something done.

And then England snorted. Who was he trying to kid? That was _never _going to happen, and he knew it. The only time nations could actually bring themselves to be serious, put their pasts behind them and focus on the present, put their minds together and spend time thinking of a _solution_ instead of causing more problems, was when another nation was actually in _trouble _and needed help.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, England didn't notice the cloth shift as another nation entered his hiding place. In fact, he was completely unaware of the second nation until said nation bumped into his back, letting out a small "ve..." of discomfort.

England whipped his head around, coming face to face with the personification of North Italy, who was looking at him through half-closed eyes, his head cocked to the side in thought. His odd curl tickled England's face. For a moment, Italy almost looked surprised, but a wide smile soon spread across his face. "Oh! It's England!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing down here, England?"

Immediately, England's hand flew up to cover Italy's mouth. He frantically shushed Italy, shaking his head quickly, his lips turning downwards into a scowl. Fortunate for him, Italy no longer cried upon laying eyes on him, screaming his surrender. "Belt up, Italy," he whispered irritably, looking around the underside of the table cautiously. Thankfully, it appeared that no one had heard the Italian. "When you're under the table, you use your inside voice! You're going to attract attention!" As Italy nodded, England's eyes narrowed, but he took his hand away regardless.

"What is England doing under the table?" Italy whispered curiously. England was glad Italy could follow simple instructions, because he wasn't really able to just kick Italy out from under the table and he didn't want to spend the rest of the morning meeting with a hand clamped over the Italian's mouth, either. "Are you hiding?"

"Yes," England answered shortly, gruffly. He really wasn't in the mood to speak with anyone, much less with an annoying, loud, useless Italian who didn't know when to shut up.

"I'm hiding too!" Italy announced, his voice rising slightly in volume, though it lowered again as England shot a poisonous glare in his direction. The wide grin returned to Italy's face as he continued, "It was Gilbert niichan that made me surrender. But I got to save my pasta!" Italy's whisper was proud as he held up a large dish, filled to the brim with pasta and sauce. There were two forks sticking out the top.

England grunted in acknowledgement, turning his head away again. His chances of being found had just increased tenfold – Italy was a popular nation, after all, and when one of his friends noticed he was missing, he would be searched for.

They sat in silence for a while, just listening to the fight above – which, if England was being honest with himself, he found absolutely incredible. Both the Italy brothers were obnoxious in their own ways and finding a moment where either of them were quiet by their own choice was rare. Italy wasn't eating his pasta either, as England found out when he looked out of the corner of his eye. Instead, he was staring up at the table, tracing his fingers over the fine wood. It was strange, sure, but England didn't question it.

Instead, England contented himself with thoughts of Prussia's untimely death by frying pan. He heard a smash, a chorus of 'ooh's and 'ahh's, and laughter. From beside him, Italy giggled quietly, smiling.

The silence, however, between the two nations was broken too soon. England's ears perked up as he caught Canada's human in the ruckus above the table. Italy reacted in a similar fashion as he heard his brother's voice.

"You get that fucking potato bastard, Matteo!" Oh, so Prussia was still conscious? Hungary needed to improve the force behind her attacks...

Italy laughed, turning his eyes towards England. "I'm glad fratello is making friends with Matteo," he said, leaning forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. "I think fratello really likes him."

At that, England's curiosity was piqued. And he had a right to be curious – to him, America and Canada would always be his little colonies, and as a big brother, he had full rights to know who his little brothers had connections with.

"Matthew and your brother are friends?" England asked quietly. He hadn't even known that Romano and Canada even spoke outside of political settings, much less that they were _friends_. He wondered how many other nations Canada met with without his knowledge. In years past, Canada had run to him for advice on everything – who he befriended, how he advised his country's leaders, what he did with his country... And yet, these days, the boy hardly told him anything.

Seeing that he had caught England's attention, Italy smiled. "Oh yes! Matteo is very nice! He often visits us to improve our foreign relations. He has very good taste in pasta, but I had to teach him a lot!" Now _that _was the highest form of a compliment from Italy, England thought, his frown growing deeper as Italy continued on. "I think... I think Matteo is good for fratello..."

"How so?" England demanded.

Gold met emerald as their eyes locked. "I think because Matteo is not Antonio niichan." Noticing England's blank look, Italy continued. "He does not hate fratello for the way he is, but he does not just accept it either, like Antonio niichan does. He tries to make fratello be a better person."

"When did this start?" England muttered, staring down at his shoes. Sure, Canada might not always be on his mind, but even so, he still kept an eye on the boy, from a distance. England wasn't sure he trusted one of his boys in Romano's hands, or Prussia's, for that matter. Just because he was too late to stop Canada and Prussia from becoming friends didn't mean he still couldn't stop Romano's prying, downright abusive hands from getting any closer to Canada than necessary. When had befriending Romano even slip under his radar? "_How _did this start?"

"You should ask Matteo yourself."

England looked up, looking surprised for only a moment. Italy sounded serious, his expression set in a frown. England almost couldn't believe his eyes. Since when was _Italy _serious about anything? "What?"

"Try asking Matteo," Italy said. "Talk to him. He doesn't hate you, you know."

_Of course he doesn't! How would you know if he does? _was what England's mind wanted him to say. But in a rare honest moment with himself, England could admit that he wasn't completely sure. The lad had stayed with him for so many years, chose England over his brother, followed him into wars... And despite that, whenever England visited him, whether accidentally when he was on his way to visit America (not that he would ever admit that) or not, Canada seemed so frigid around him, faking smiles and talking to him for the sole reason of being polite.

England sighed as he realized he was getting advice from _Italy –_ the most useless nation on the face of the earth. He had really hit an all time low today. "Right," he said dismissively. "I'll speak to the lad."

As soon as the words left England's mouth, Italy clapped his hands together. "Ve~ Fantastico! This is so great!"

Another blanket of near silence fell over the two nations, broken only by Italy humming a quick, cheerful song under his breath. His eyes occasionally flitted to the untouched pasta, though they only rested there for a moment before they flicked away again. Distractedly, England pulled out his phone every few minutes, growing frustrated by just how slow time seemed to be moving for him.

He still had another forty-five minutes until lunch broke. The food fight above the table showed no signs of stopping – if anything, it seemed as though it had only grown larger as time passed – and Italy showed no signs of planning to leave any time soon. In fact, he seemed quite content to stay exactly where he was, laying down spread-eagle on the carpeted floor, eyes shut.

While Italy's eyes were closed, England took the chance to look over the Italian. Even with minimal light, he could see Italy's body was not fit for battle. Despite Germany's grueling training, Italy had the body of a runner, not a fighter. His hands were slender, and England had a hard time believing that Italy had held a weapon of any kind. He was baby-faced, too, with eyelashes much too long and thick for his own good, framing golden eyes that shone in the darkness. His expression was set in a relaxed smile, utterly defenceless, as if he laid beside near strangers everyday, as if he _trusted _England not to take advantage of his unguarded state.

England blinked once, twice, three times at the sight before him. How could Italy leave himself so... _vulnerable _like that? Despite that, in the present time, nobody was really a threat to anybody anymore, England couldn't help but constantly be on his guard, even around his "family". They were simply his instincts, and he couldn't be rid of them that easily.

He only realized he had been staring when he noticed Italy's eyes open slightly, looking up at him through those damnably thick lashes. His mouth curled into a smile, opening to form a question, but England quickly turned his head away, looking anywhere but _at _Italy. He had been caught and he felt heat rush to his cheeks at the thought. He was suddenly thankful for the lack of the light.

Eventually, in his search for something else to focus on, England's eyes ended up on the dish of pasta Italy had brought with him. His stomach growled quite loudly at the sight of the meal. In order to catch his early flight, he had to skip his breakfast and he hadn't the time to grab something for the airport. And Italy's pasta was beginning to look very appealing...

From beside him, Italy sat straight up at the sound, a knowing look in his eyes. "England is hungry, sì?" he asked, taking one of the forks from the pasta and holding it out to England. "We can share. England doesn't look very happy, but pasta makes everyone happy!"

England took the outstretched fork after a moment, swirling noodles around the utensil before sticking it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "It isn't British," he grumbled through his food, "but it will have to do."

Italy's smile could have outshone the sun. "I'm glad you like it!"

England felt his own lips twitch upwards. He couldn't help it – Italy's smile was infectious. "It is good," he conceded. "Much better than whatever that blasted frog brought to this meeting, I'm sure."

Italy laughed and nodded, bringing a forkful of pasta to his own mouth. They ate in comfortable silence, though Italy's eyes never left England for more than a few seconds at a time. Above, the fight finally seemed to be slowing down. He could still hear the yells of his fellow nations, but the number of voices he could recognize had decreased in number.

However, Italy's stare was becoming more and more apparent with each passing second. His head was cocked to the side slightly, fork stuck between his lips. But before England could ask why he was being stared at so intently, Italy scooted forward, close enough that England could feel his heat, arm reaching up towards England's hair.

England's breath caught in his throat as he felt a slender finger momentarily brush his cheek before he heard Italy mutter a quiet 'ah-ha!'. He tried to convince himself that the only reason his heart jumped at the contact was because no one but France had touched him that gently in years. He just wasn't used to it.

"England had potatoes in his hair!" Italy whispered to England's unvoiced question, pulling back a small clump of mashed potatoes from the island nation's unruly locks. He held it up for a moment before flicking it away. "See? You can't go out with food in your hair!" It seemed Italy didn't notice how England stiffened as the Italian patted his hair down, watching curiously as the locks stayed down for only a moment before spiking up again.

England nodded, scooting away so that he was no longer in arms reach of Italy. He thanked the other nation quietly, putting down his fork and pulling out his phone once again. He had another ten minutes before everyone (hopefully) left the conference room, though he wasn't sure he could wait that long to escape.

With just one little shift, he had inadvertently made everything awkward. He knew that Italy was a touchy feely and friendly nation – everyone knew that. It was the reason he had so many friends. Getting a surprise hug or being invited for pasta was a normal occurrence and it had happened to most of the nations at least once. He wasn't particularly special.

"Ve~ England! Want to come to lunch with me?"

_Lunch? _England thought incredulously. They had just had lunch! His gaze wandered down to the now empty pasta dish. Just how large was Italy's appetite? Then again, it _was _pasta...

With a sigh, England lifted his head and shook it quickly. "I can't," he answered simply. He didn't give an explanation, instead choosing to go back to staring at his phone. He had just started a new game of Snake when Italy spoke again, throwing off his concentration and making him crash the snake into the wall.

"Why not?"

"I'm going out."

"Where?"

"_Out."_

Vaguely, England wondered if Italy had even noticed his change in demeanour. Probably not. Italy couldn't read the mood if his life depended on it. And even so, England hoped against all hope that Italy would somehow sense the mood, perform a miracle, and _drop the subject._

But today, luck was not on England's side.

"Going out _where_?" Italy persisted. "What if you get lost?"

"I'm not Austria," England grumbled. "I know where I'm going and I'll be back in time." But that was half a lie. He was confident that he would be back in time for the second half of the meeting, but he didn't have a clue where he was going to go. Earlier, he had decided that he would walk in one direction until he found a clothing store. He figured that would work out fine.

"But–" Italy cut himself off, looking unsure. He made a vague motion with his arms. "But Venice is so big! Doesn't England want a tour guide? I can help! I can show you all the best places to get pasta!"

"I don't need a tour guide. Go with someone else," England said dismissively. Since when was Italy so _persistent? _He couldn't remember the Italian nation acting like this to anyone except Germany and Romano, but it never took Italy long to make either of them bend. His puppy dog eyes worked like a charm.

"But I've already shown everyone else!" Italy replied. He leaned in closer, clutching his hands under his chin. He caught England's eye and stuck his lip out slightly. For what felt like the millionth time that day, England cursed his luck. Italy had brought out _the eyes._ England turned away, lest he succumb. "Per favore, England!"

Ah, so that was the reason. England thought he could understand Italy's persistence now – somewhat. The capital city of a country was their pride and joy, so to speak. And whoever they were, no matter which nation, they loved to show it off. It was a trait that all the nations shared.

Above, England heard America's yell of, "Hell yeah! Lunch time! Burger time! Let's _go_, Mattie!" and let out a breath of relief. He could hear nations filing out of the room, slamming doors, talk of finishing what they started outside and debates of where they were going for lunch retreating further and further until they were nothing but a dull murmur.

When he heard nothing but silence above, England turned back to Italy. He had two weeks to spend in Venice, so he supposed he could spare one day to let Italy show him around the city. "Some other day," he muttered. A smile spread over Italy's face, one so wide that if he saw it in any other situation other than this one, he would think Italy was just offered a lifetime of free pasta. "But not today. Thank you for the pasta." Italy nodded excitedly as England turned to crawl out of his hiding spot.

Poking his head out from under the table, England couldn't say he was surprised by the mess of the conference room. Food covered every possible surface – even the ceiling, but England knew better than to question it – and there was nothing in the room that had been left unscathed. On the other side of the room, Italy appeared from under the table, laughing loudly as he looked around the room.

As he spied England, Italy waved his arms frantically around the room. "Look, England!" he exclaimed, yelling across the room. "Look at all this food! It's wasted! Doitsu is going to freak out when he sees this tomorrow!"

England ran his eyes around the room once again, nodding once in agreement. If Germany had been there, perhaps the fight wouldn't have gotten so far as it did. But he hadn't been there and America, who had appointed himself leader of the meeting, had done nothing in an attempt to stop it.

He figured that they weren't going to continue today's meeting – not with this mess. If Germany had been there, he would have been in there, on his hands and knees, scrubbing everything until it shined. An unwilling Prussia, Italy and Japan would have likely been with him, Japan trying his best to help while Italy tried to make an excuse to take a siesta and Prussia devised a plan to sneak out of the room without Germany noticing.

England snorted at the scenario playing out in his head, heading towards the conference room doors, ignoring the odd burning sensation he felt on the back of his head. The hallway was mostly clear of nations, save for a distracted Prussia and Austria arguing near the elevator, while a softly humming Hungary and bored-looking Romania hung from the ceiling, the former snapping pictures and giggling.

None of the nations spared him a glance as England brushed past them. He wondered if anyone had even noticed his disappearance. Usually, he couldn't get a moment of peace to himself – but with America and France around, who could? He found it a little odd that neither of them had gone looking for him, but he supposed that they were distracted by the food fight.

England tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the elevator to arrive, one hand set on his hip, the other clutching his meeting folder. In the background, he could hear Italy laughing, saying, "Ve~ Grazie, fratello!" as he leapt forward to wrap his arms around his brother's waist.

England just barely heard Romano's angry, surprised splutter at being hugged so suddenly. As he stepped forward and the elevator doors closed behind him, he could just make out the words, "Yeah, but why the hell did you want that? You better fucking owe me for this, bastardo."

And he didn't stop to think about just where the hell Romano had come from until much later in the day, when he was stomping back to the conference building and muttering under his breath the entire way.

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**A/N **;; So this was the first chapter! All you guys should leave a review and tell me what you think.

(1) Rijstebrij - Old-fashioned Dutch rice pudding. It's very good, I recommend it.

Anyway, stay awesome, guys.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **;; For the record, I absolutely _adore_ PruCan. I think their relationship could be interesting, and if it has a romantic aspect to it, it's even better. The entire first part of this chapter is mostly me practising for writing PruCan interaction, as I'm planning on writing it more seriously in another fic – and yeah, it wasn't planned to be there in the first place, but I liked it so much that I couldn't bear to part with it.

And thanks for all the awesome reviews/favs/alerts, guys! I know Angel Pair isn't that popular of a pairing, so I didn't think I'd get this much attention for only the first chapter. Grazie~

Remember to review for this chapter, too!

* * *

**Normal Circumstances**

**[Chapter Two – In Which Pancakes are Made and Wallets are Lost]**

* * *

Canada was standing in front of the stove in his hotel room, shaping his pancakes into perfect golden-brown circles, humming a soft song under his breath, when he heard his phone ring. He didn't need to look at the screen to figure out who it was – the screeching German metal band easily gave it away.

He picked up his phone and accepted the call in one movement, not once taking his eyes off the pancakes. Pancakes, after all, had to be prepared with the utmost care and affection. If he looked away for only a second, he could run the risk of having them burn, and no one, especially not him, wanted to eat burned pancakes.

"Gilbert," he greeted, flipping a pancake into the air. He watched it land with perfect precision back in the pan, smiling as he repeated the process once again. This last pancake would complete his forth stack and he was eager to finish it.

"_Are you making pancakes?"_

Canada blinked slowly, looking from the stacks of pancakes on the counter to the ones on the griddle and back again, confused. Had Prussia somehow developed psychic powers without his knowledge? "Yes, actually..." he answered, switching his cell phone to his other hand as he finished his last stack and brought one of the plates over to the night table beside the bed. "How did you guess that, may I ask?"

"_I can smell them."_

If Canada was confused before, now he could say that he was utterly _lost. _"Smell them?" he repeated. "...How?"

"_I'm just that awesome." _There was a pause, and Canada tried to refrain from laughing, pressing a hand over his mouth. It would only serve to make Prussia indignant, despite his acknowledgement of Canada's strange ability to predict almost everything he said. Not that Prussia was all that hard to predict – Canada had just taken the time to learn and study the ex-nation, unlike his fellow countries, who couldn't seem to be bothered with it._"Also, I'm standing outside your door. Come let the awesome me in."_

Canada got up off the bed, heading towards the door, phone still pressed against his ear. Thankfully, he was not at home and in one of Italy's hotels, or else he knew the door would have been kicked off its hinges by an impatient and excited Prussian. As he looked through the peek-hole, he found that, sure enough, Prussia was standing there, tapping his foot impatiently, one hand placed on his hip. Canada snorted and laughed as he was reminded of a certain aristocratic nation.

"_I know you're there. The awesome me hears all, Vögelchen."_

Canada was still laughing softly as he opened the door, making Prussia raise an eyebrow before he pushed past him into the hotel room. Realizing he still had his phone on, Canada hastily ended the call and slipped the device into his pocket, closing the door and following after Prussia.

He found Prussia on his bed, already halfway through the stack of eight pancakes he had made for himself. Canada sighed, a bit put out that Prussia had snatched up his pancakes for his own without asking, but went to grab another plate of pancakes and fork regardless. He was glad he had the foresight to make extra.

By the time Canada had situated himself against the wall, Prussia had already finished his last pancake and was now looking at Canada expectantly. "What?" Canada asked in between swallowing a piece of pancake and dipping his finger in the pool of maple syrup gathered on his plate. He licked his finger clean, not noticing how Prussia suddenly sat up a little straighter.

In response, Prussia's stomach growled rather loudly, making Canada grin. He flicked a thumb towards the kitchen area of his hotel room, saying, "There are two more plates there, if you want them. Help yourself."

Canada expected Prussia to jump off the bed and rush towards his food, but he instead flopped down, raising his legs onto his bed and spreading out his limbs, folding his arms behind his head. He turned his head to look at Canada, his face the very picture of seriousness. "Can't you get them for me?"

Canada wrinkled his nose. "No. Get off your ass and do it yourself."

Prussia's voice transitioned into a whine as he said, "But you're standing _right there_!"

"No. I'm not your servant." Despite the general quietness of his voice, Canada tried to make himself sound as firm as possible. Usually, that was the only way to convince Prussia (or America) to do something, but he suspected that it was only Prussia's amusement in his attempts that made him acquiesce. "Get up or you're not getting anything."

Prussia groaned and sat up in one smooth movement, heading towards the pancakes. On his way back, he brushed against Canada, leaning uncomfortably close to his ear and whispering, "You know, with you as my servant, we could have so much _fun._" He cackled as Canada turned a bright red.

"R-right, then..." Canada muttered as he gently pushed Prussia away, suddenly wishing that his invisibility would kick in. "What did you come here for?"

"What?" Prussia almost sounded offended as he sat down once again, one plate of pancakes on his lap and the other sitting on the bed beside him. "I can't come visit mein Vögelchen just because? I have to have a reason?"

"Not exactly. But this wasn't a surprise visit, was it?"

"Kesesese, nope. I actually came here because we need to talk–"

_Not a **talk**, _Canada thought miserably. Having a 'talk' always meant something bad, everyone knew that. France had called him in for a 'talk' before he was handed off to England in 1763, England had wanted to 'talk' to him before forcing him into a war he wanted no part in, a 'talk' was what Ukraine wanted to have and had ended with Canada locking himself in his house and eating nothing but pancakes and ice cream for a week.

"–about Italy."

Canada let out a slow breath of relief. "What about him?"

"You know what he's planning, don't you?"

Canada stiffened, but nodded.

"And he's roped you into it, hasn't he?"

Another silent nod.

"Ahhh." Prussia looked up at the ceiling, a thoughtful look on his face. "Me too. Lizzy and Francis didn't need to be asked twice. But he can be quite convincing, ja? The kid is a lot smarter than anyone gives him credit for."

Canada agreed wholeheartedly. The nation that had Prussia, Germany and Romano wrapped around his finger was indeed, as Canada had found out in the last few months of knowing Romano and, by extension, Italy, much smarter than his initial impression might give away. Despite what the majority of nations seemed to think (and Canada could admit, albeit with slight reluctance, that he had once been among that number), Italy was not all sunshine and smiles and pasta.

"Lovino doesn't know yet," Canada found himself saying, picking Kumajirou off the ground, ignoring the bear's quiet 'who?'. "But I think he's suspicious. He's going to throw a fit when he finds out."

Prussia snorted. "That isn't anything new, Vögelchen."

Canada felt a fond smile spread over his face. "Feliciano could have chosen someone worse. It could have been Germany or Francis. I think Lovino would explode if that were the case."

"Or me."

"Or you," Canada conceded with a small smile. "He wouldn't want either of the 'potato bastards' any closer to his innocent brother then they already are." He was sure, that if Romano thought he could, he would lock a chastity belt on Italy, throw away the key, and hide him away for the rest of the world for as long as he possibly could.

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, though a question nagged annoyingly at the back of Canada's mind. "Do you approve?" he asked finally, clutching Kumajirou tighter against his chest as Prussia's eyes locked onto his.

Prussia scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "Do you even need to ask? Of course not! No one is or will ever be good enough for Ita-cakes!" He paused for a moment. "Except me, of course."

Canada let out a note of laughter. "Francis loves the idea."

Another scoff. "Well fuck, Francy-pants will approve of anything as long as it doesn't involve you, Vögelchen." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You know how he is about," Prussia paused for a moment, clearing his throat, attempting to imitate France's suave, smooth accent, "_l'amour_!"

Canada lifted his hand over his mouth in an attempt to smother his giggles. Hearing Prussia attempt to imitate French was always amusing. Sometimes, when they were alone and Prussia was in the mood, they would spend their time together speaking French, laughing and teasing each other as Canada tried to correct Prussia's pronunciation of a language he hadn't used in decades.

Hearing Canada laugh brought a smile of his own to Prussia's face. Stacking all three of his empty plates, Prussia grinned wide and hard as he held them out to Canada. "Mattie~" he cooed, cocking his head to the side in an (attempt) to look cute. "Make me some more pancakes?"

Rolling his eyes, Canada stepped forward and took the plates from Prussia's hands, adding his own to the top as well. He looked down at Prussia, seemingly considering something. "Fine," he said after a moment, "but on one condition."

"Anything!" Prussia replied immediately, though he soon regretted it as he saw an odd smile cross Canada's face.

"Well, if you're so eager to start..."

* * *

And on the other side of Venice, in a quaint little shop situated in the east corner of Piazza San Marco, England wanted to slam his head into the glass counter in front of him.

The woman standing behind the counter was staring at him in amusement, cocking her head to the side, her odd curl moving to rest on her face. England let out yet another groan as he pulled his hands out of his pockets, glaring down at his empty palms, where his wallet was _supposed _to be.

But it _wasn't _and that was what frustrated England. The suits he had picked out laid on the counter, including a particularly nice green one that brought out his eyes (because if he had learned anything from France in the centuries they had known each other, it was how to make himself look presentable), five of the best he could find in the shop, but he couldn't exactly buy them without any money. This was the kind of thing _America _did, not him!

Quickly, he went over possible options in his mind. Had he possibly forgotten it back in the conference building? Had it fell out on his way to the Piazza without him noticing? Had it been stolen?

Either way, he wasn't likely to get his wallet back – not unless it had been picked up by a considerate human or by one of the few nations that still liked him (which, considering how small that group was, not likely). Letting out what felt the millionth sigh that day, England mustered a tiny smile and quietly thanked the Italian shop owner for her patience (he was a gentleman above all else, after all) before turning around and walking out the door.

Taking a deep breath of air as he exited did nothing to calm England's nerves, and he wondered if he looked as disheveled as he felt. He had spent the last three hours wandering around Venice, looking for a shop that sold presentable clothes. His earlier strategy of simply walking in one direction hadn't worked, and he had eventually resorted to accepting the help from a couple at a cafe he had stopped at.

It had put a bit of a dent in his pride, yes, to accept help from humans, but he figured that the longer he spent wandering around lost, the better chance one of his fellow nations might happen to stumble upon him.

And despite his best efforts to avoid being seen, France, the bloody frog that he is, had caught up to him with the most infuriating smirk on his face. Their conversation, if it could even be called that, was brief and had ended with France sprawled out on the ground with a developing bruise on his cheek and England rubbing his sore fist. He had darted away (he hadn't _ran _away) before France had a chance to sit up, ducking into a nearby alleyway.

Briefly, he had considered spending some extra money and attempting to disguise himself, but he figured it wouldn't work any better than it had the last time he had tried it – and he wasn't sure he wanted to put the effort into washing that much hair gel out of his hair ever again.

Eventually, he had reached Piazza San Marco without any further interruptions, save for when he had spied a laughing Hungary speaking to a bruised France. He had managed to evade them without any problem, and he was pleased to find, upon arrival to the Piazza, that there was not one nation in sight. However, by that time, he was more than irritated, and the incident with his wallet had done absolutely nothing to improve his mood.

England sighed, glaring down at the ground. In the distance, the sun was beginning to set, casting to St. Mark's Campanile in shadows. He had little choice now but to find his way to the hotel, unless he wanted to wander the streets of Venice in the dark. He would attempt to find his wallet tomorrow, he told himself, tucking his hands into his pockets, absently fingering his passport.

The streets of Venice were quiet as he retraced his steps back to the conference building, softly lit with the glow of street lamps. The steady, repetitive sound of his feet hitting the cobblestone filled his ears as he walked, trying to remember the instructions he had looked up before jumping on his plane earlier in the day.

While he walked, England took the time to admire Venice. It had been years since England had actually bothered to _look at _Venice – the last time a conference had been held there, he had spent all his free time cooped up in his hotel room, doing paperwork that wasn't due for the next three years – and he had almost forgotten how grand of a city it was (though it was practically nothing compared to his own capital).

Inside the shops, he could spy Italy's citizens chatting and laughing happily, beginning to close their shops for the night, all sunshine and smiles. A small, barely noticeable smile began to twitch at England's lips as he observed. Much like the nation himself, Italy's people could bring a smile to anyone's face, no matter what mood they were in.

But thinking about Italy made England's smile falter slightly. He wasn't sure what he had been thinking when he agreed to Italy's earlier offer. Maybe it was because of how similar Italy had looked to a kicked puppy when he had initially refused, or maybe it was because of the way Italy had pouted as he persisted.

But whatever the reason, England could already feel the inklings of regret root themselves in his mind. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he recognized one of the street names, making a sharp right turn, "I'm growing soft."

By the time England finally reached the hotel, the full moon was high in the sky, stars blinking into sight one by one. He let out a sigh of relief upon spying the building, quickening his pace and ignoring the burning he felt in his feet. He was so tired, he was hungry, his feet hurt and all he wanted to do was sleep. And all he would have to do was get up to his room and then he could relax all he wanted...

The hotel itself was nice, England supposed, with polite staff and a cheerful atmosphere. It was the hotel most of the nations were staying in, the majority of them having paired up to save money. England himself hadn't bothered (mostly because anyone he would have considered asking had already paired up) and had reserved a room for simply himself, on one of the highest floors.

As he walked through the doors, England's nose was immediately assaulted by the scent of roses. And although it was not an unwelcome scent, his nose scrunched up involuntarily, the strength of the smell reminding him of France. The bloody frog had never learned exactly how much perfume to wear to make the smell _subtle_ – but then again, nothing about France was subtle.

"Do you have a reservation, sir?" one of the employees at the front desk asked as England stopped in front of it, drumming his fingers on his forearms impatiently.

"Yes, under the name Arthur Kirkland," he answered shortly, the speed of fingers increasing as the employee quickly typed away at his computer.

Just a few more minutes, he told himself, a few more minutes and then he could collapse upon entrance to his room, fall asleep and let blissful unconsciousness whisk away all his worries for a few hours...

However, his blissful fantasy was abruptly broken by the voice of the hotel employee. He was frowning, looking up at England. "There is no reservation under 'Arthur Kirkland', sir."

England raised one thick eyebrow in disbelief. Surely, he had just made a mistake and typed his name in incorrectly? It wouldn't have been the first time that had happened... "Are you sure?" he prodded, a horrible feeling suddenly descending over his head.

The employee nodded, turning around the computer screen to show him. Just as he had said, the screen was blank. "I'm absolutely sure, sir."

England closed his eyes and held his breath. "Are there any available rooms?"

The employee shook his head. "No, sir. I'm sorry, but we're completely booked."

England exhaled slowly, feeling his shoulders slouch. The feeling that had appeared over his head enveloped him, casting his expression into a scowl, his hands clenching into fists. His voice was forced as he bid farewell, stiffly turning around and taking heavy steps back towards the entrance of the hotel, ripping the door open with more force than necessary.

"Bloody fucking hell," England muttered as he heard the hotel doors swing shut behind him. He pulled his suit jacket tighter against himself as a chill wind gusted by. "Could this day get any worse?"

Quickly realizing his mistake, England turned his eyes to the cloudless sky and added, "And that is _not a dare_."

* * *

"Quickly, quickly! Commence Operation BRD! Eyebrows has left the building! I repeat: Eyebrows has left the building!"

"...You're taking this way too seriously."

"Hurry! Commence! On my count – one, two..."

"What does BRD even stand for, anyway?"

* * *

It had started raining.

As the metaphorical cream to the top of the metaphorical crop, it had began to rain.

England clutched his arms tighter around himself as another shiver racked his body, desperately trying to preserve any body heat he had left. Yes, despite that he knew that this wouldn't – couldn't – kill him, as his nation was in no state of turmoil and he wouldn't even likely face the later aftereffects, that didn't mean the cold wasn't affecting him _at the moment_. Living in England – hell, _being _England – hadn't built him any special defence against the powers of Mother Nature.

He felt like a drowned rat. His suit was soaked and it clung to him, weighing him down and slowing his pace. Vaguely, he wondered if this was some kind of karma. Or had he angered Romania again? His fellow magic user was known to pull stunts like this frequently, but never quite to this extent – not to this extent on _him, _anyway. He couldn't say the same for Austria, Hungary and Prussia.

Beside him, Mrs. Fairy popped into existence, tittering softly as she took her place on his shoulder. England reached up and gently rubbed the top of her head with his thumb, scowl softening as she leaned into the touch. "Hello there, poppet," he muttered softly, looking around subtly, making sure there was no one on the street that could possibly hear him.

"_Hi, England..." _Mrs. Fairy leaned forward slightly, locks of pink hair tickling England's wet neck. Her tiny face bore a frown, blue eyes bright and curious._"What's wrong?"_

"...Everything..."

"_What does that mean?"_

"It means nothing has gone right today. My wallet is lost, my clothes are gone and I have no money... I have to find Alfred and Matthew's hotel... and I don't know where it is."

Mrs. Fairy tittered, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Rain bounced off her figure as she hopped off England's shoulder and came to fly in front of his face. _"Aww, cheer up, England!" _she exclaimed. _"__Everything will get better soon!" _

"How so?"

She flew closer, laying a pale hand on his nose. Her touch tickled. _"Just you wait," _she told him, smiling. _"Have patience and everything will work out on its own. No plan needed!" _

"...What?"

"_After all, plans hardly go as they're supposed to."_

And just as quickly as she had appeared, Mrs. Fairy poofed out of the sight, leaving nothing behind but a few flecks of glitter, carried away by the wind. England was left staring, blinking confusedly, nose twitching uncomfortably.

"Where are you going, England?"

England's head snapped to the side, green eyes wide with surprise. Italy stood there, umbrella held over his head, smiling softly. "W-what? Ah, Alfred and Matthew's hotel."

"Hm? And which one is that?"

England racked his memory for the name. "La Parata..." he finally replied after a moment, not caring whether his pronunciation was right or not. He sniffled slightly, feeling his teeth chatter behind closed lips.

"Is that so?" Italy asked, laughing quietly. When England nodded, he turned slightly, pointing in the opposite direction. "You were going the wrong way."

"I knew that!" England replied immediately, indignantly. "I was going to see France first!"

"For what?"

"Discussing foreign relations, of course."

Italy's head cocked to the side. His smile was annoyingly _knowing_. "In the rain?"

England sniffed. "We were going to a cafe."

"When everywhere is closed?"

"Ye–" England cut himself off, grumbling under his breath. Had _Italy _really just caught him lying? If that was the case, perhaps he wasn't as good as he thought. Or maybe this hadn't been the most opportune time to lie... not when the evidence was so obviously stacked against him.

"So," Italy continued, stepping a bit closer to the island nation, utterly oblivious to England's increasing uncomfortableness. England took a step back, replacing some of the space between himself and Italy. "What were you _really _doing out here in the rain, England?"

_Trying to find a hotel. __Sucking up his pride and hoping that either America or Canada would be willing to help him. Trying to avoid running into other nations. _"Doesn't matter," England answered dismissively, shrugging. "What are _you _doing out here?"

"Going home?" Italy offered innocently. He held up his meeting folders, which had been hidden beneath his coat. "I don't live far from here."

"Oh," England replied lamely.

"Would you like to come with me?" When England didn't respond, save for a muttered "eh?", Italy continued. "You're soaked, you know? Can you even feel that? You must be so cold. You can dry off if you come with me. We can have pasta!" He paused for a moment, smiling as if what he said next would be the deciding factor. "And I have tea."

_Well, it's either keep walking in the rain or have a place to stay temporarily..._

"What kind of tea?" he asked cautiously.

"Earl Gray."

"Well, if it's just this once..."

* * *

**A/N **;; Sorry there's not more England in this chapter! His scene just wasn't working for me and after working on it for over a week, I decided I would save him more for the next chapter. He'll be taking up the majority of chapter three!

Plus, I wanted to have Prussia and Canada in this chapter. Romano gets a scene next chapter.

And I feel like that in some parts of this chapter, it was kind of weak. Especially near the end. Maybe one day, I'll come back and edit it a bit.

Headcanon: Prussia will only call Canada 'Vögelchen' or 'Birdie' when they're alone.

Yet another headcanon: Hungary and France are so _~yaoi-buddies~_ and will work together on any matchmaking projects.

**Translations: **(By the way, I'll only be writing the translations for phrases or words that I'm sure not everybody will understand. Simple words like "fratello", "fantastico", "bonjour", etc. won't be translated. Usually, looking at the context around the word should give you a pretty good idea of what it means.)  
Vögelchen = Birdie  
Parata = Parade (Behold my crappy fictional hotel-naming skills!)

I had no idea what to call England's fairy in this chapter. In his character song _Pub and Go! _he just calls her 'Mrs. Fairy', so I just went with that.

Stay awesome, guys.


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